are you on tour with any bands now?
Yes, currently working for The Devil Wears Prada.
from.
“In the tall bathroom I stand staring at the door. I can hear her moving on the other side. The pajama top trails on the floor beside me and she is whistling in the kitchen. Suddenly the staggering love bursts away from me like milk from a smashed glass. She is manipulating me. Pushing me around as though I were nothing but a mobile stomach like the news vendor. She fancies she has me under control. Red anger blisters my guts. She doesn’t see me at all. She doesn’t know who she’s dealing with. I am the watcher, the mover, and the maker. She is just like her father, casually, carelessly enslaving me with my love. She doesn’t know the powers the keep me here. She thinks it’s her charm and guile.”
Remain and speak.
One step at a time and we find ourselves moving in slow motion, or to say the least; a motion much slower than normal. Arms stretched out, grasping for this and that, skimming the roughly textured surfaces of everything that is near; or so we tell ourselves. What I believe is happening, and please do correct me if I am misled, is that our minds are taking us up and down these individual rabbit trails the allow us to believe that these outstretched arms of ours are much closer to these surfaces than they actually are. I stand where I stand and the clouds move in a way so smoothly above me that I feel as if the Earth has stopped rotating. A time lapse shows me a fraction of the sun, though we haven’t come too far. The index finger of my left hand taps the edge of the table, while simultaneously the index finger of my right hand taps the edge of the table. Our story fills in the gap, and what a beautiful story it is. A story that pulses back and forth, up and down, in and out at the steady rate of which we both breathe. Our lungs filling up, then letting go. I can’t remember the last time I walked up a hill so steep. I can’t remember the last time I wanted something so badly. The type of longing and desire that causes one to forget that any sort of world is existing around them. The type of longing and desire that causes one to forget that the sun ever sets. Our days our bright, our days have no numbers. A tangent at best, I will let this end remain loose.
